Poor orphan girl is forced to marry a poor man, not knowing that he is a secret billionaire
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The Beggar’s Bride
Once upon a time, in a quiet village nestled between two green hills, lived a young girl named Adama. She was nineteen, beautiful as a ripe mango, with kind eyes and a gentle voice. But beauty was not her blessing—it was her burden. Orphaned at eleven by a fire that took her parents, Adama had lived with her uncle, Ozu Amina, his wife, Aunt Neca, and their two daughters, Goi and Chinier, ever since. Under their roof, she was more servant than family. Every morning before dawn, Adama fetched water, swept the compound, and cooked meals. Her days were filled with chores and harsh words.
“Adama, wash these plates now!” Aunt Neca would shout, even if she’d just finished cooking. “You think because people say you’re pretty, you’ll fly out of my house? Foolish girl!” But Adama never replied. She learned that silence was safer; talking back meant sleeping outside, and crying meant more ridicule.
Despite everything, Adama remained kind. She greeted elders, helped market women carry their loads, and never laughed at the misfortune of others. Her quiet goodness drew the attention of suitors—rich men from the city, looking for a village wife. Some came for Goi or Chinier, but after seeing Adama, their minds changed. “Who is the girl with the calm eyes?” one whispered to Uncle Ozu Amina, not realizing she was his niece.
That evening, the house turned thunderous. “You’re blocking your sisters’ shine!” Aunt Neca screamed, throwing Adama’s slippers outside. “Every man comes here and changes his mind. What did you put in your body?”
“I don’t even talk to them,” Adama whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Shut up!” Uncle Ozu Amina barked. “Don’t stand there like a carved stone. Who asked you to talk? Since you refuse to respect yourself, I’ll make sure you never smell marriage. You’ll marry a madman if possible.” He slapped her, and from that night, everything changed. Adama was banned from eating with the family, forced to bathe at the backyard tap, and mocked by her cousins whenever visitors came.
One Saturday, a stranger arrived. He wore dusty clothes, carried a wooden walking stick, and kept a crooked hat pulled low over his face. He looked tired, perhaps injured. The neighborhood watched as he limped into Uncle Ozu Amina’s compound. He spoke little, only whispered to Uncle. Uncle’s eyes lit up like he’d found gold.
“You’re serious? You want to marry her?” Uncle asked the beggar, pretending to whisper.
“I have enough for someone who is humble,” the man replied, his voice calm and confident.
They shook hands, sealing a business deal. That night, Uncle Ozu Amina called a family meeting. “Adama, sit down,” he said. “We have found a husband for you.”
Adama turned slowly. “Who is he?”
“You don’t need to ask questions. He’ll take you as you are. No bride price, nothing. Just carry your cursed beauty and go.”
Goi snorted. “Let her ask. Maybe she wants Dangote’s son.”
“Shut up, all of you!” Aunt Neca snapped. “We’re doing her a favor. The wedding is in two weeks.”
Adama didn’t sleep that night. Was this her life, to be married off to a crippled stranger while her cousins lived freely? The next day, she saw him again, the beggar, sitting by the village square feeding birds. His clothes were dirty, but his hands were clean, nails trimmed. His posture was not that of a beggar.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Adama said shyly.
He turned. “Adama,” he said softly. “How are you?”
“You know my name?”
“I listened when your uncle shouted it yesterday.”
She almost smiled. “You’re the man I’m to marry.”
“Yes.”
She looked down. “Why me?”
“Because you’re different.”
She blinked. “Different how?”
He smiled but said nothing. Then he stood, stretched, his back straight for a moment, and picked up his walking stick. “See you soon, Adama,” he said, walking off slowly.
Adama stood there for a long time. That evening, her cousins mocked her again. “I heard you were talking to your beggar husband,” Chinier teased. “You better get used to using leaves. He can’t even afford tissue paper,” Goi added. But Adama said nothing. Something inside her was shifting. The shame still hurt, but she began to feel a strange peace, as if her life was about to change.
The days passed quickly. Aunt Neca made Adama’s life harder than ever. She gave her the worst chores, shouted for no reason, and even slapped her for “walking like a princess.” “You better bend that proud neck before your husband breaks it for you,” she yelled.
One afternoon, a group of women passed by. “That’s her,” one said. “The girl marrying the cripple.” Another laughed. “She thought her beauty would take her far. Now look at her.” Adama kept sweeping, her hands moving faster, eyes wet.
Later, Aunt Neca threw a torn, stained lace gown at Adama. “This is what you’ll wear on your wedding day.” Adama asked if she could fix it. “So you can look like a queen beside your beggar king?” Goi mocked. “Don’t worry. Nobody will be looking at you—they’ll be watching to see if your husband falls on his way to the altar.”
That night, Adama sat alone behind the house. The moon was half full, the stars quiet. Suddenly, the beggar appeared beside her.
“You’re not sleeping,” he said gently.
She turned, startled. “Why are you here?”
“I was passing by. I saw you sitting alone.”
“You shouldn’t be here. If my uncle sees you—”
“I know. I’ll go soon. I just wanted to talk.”
“About what?” she asked.
He kept a little distance. “About us. About the wedding.”
Adama looked down. “What about it?”
“I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know you’re not happy.”
She didn’t reply.
“But I want you to know,” he continued, “I won’t force you into anything. If you want to leave after the wedding, I’ll let you go.”
Adama raised her head slowly. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m not here to punish you. I just wanted someone who could look beyond my face, someone who would treat me like a human being, not an object of pity.”
She blinked.
“From the first day I saw you,” he said, “you didn’t laugh when the children mocked me. You didn’t turn away when I asked for water. You greeted me with respect.”
“That’s what I was taught.”
He nodded. “That’s why you’re different.”
She stepped back, voice breaking. “But I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask to be married off like a burden.”
“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry.”
They stood in silence. Then he bowed slightly. “Good night, Adama,” and walked away.
The morning of the wedding came with silence. No drums, no music, just quiet footsteps, hushed voices, and fake smiles. Adama sat in her small room, staring at herself in a cracked mirror. The torn lace gown hung loosely on her shoulders. She looked like a bride being punished.
“They are waiting. Come out,” Aunt Neca ordered.
Adama stepped into the sitting room. Uncle Ozu Amina, Goi, Chinier, three neighbors, and the pastor sat as if at a funeral. The beggar, Obina, wore cleaner clothes, his walking stick in hand. The ceremony was quick and cold.
“Do you, Obina, take Adama as your wife?”
“I do,” Obina said calmly.
“And you, Adama, do you take Obina as your husband?”
She looked at him, then around the room. Her uncle’s eyes were cold, her aunt’s face hard, her cousins smirking. But Obina’s eyes were kind. She whispered, “I do.”
“You may go,” the pastor said.
Obina turned to her. “Let’s go.”
Adama followed him out of the compound. Aunt Neca didn’t say goodbye. Uncle didn’t look back. As they walked, she didn’t cry. She was done crying.
They turned onto a small path by the main road. “Are we not taking the bush path?” Adama asked.
“No,” Obina said. “We have a car.”
“A car?” She saw it—a black SUV parked quietly under a tree. The driver opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said.
Adama’s eyes widened. Obina smiled and helped her into the car. “Sit. You’re safe now.”
As the car pulled away, Adama sat in silence, her heart racing. This was not how poor men lived. She turned to him. “Obina, please tell me the truth. Who are you?”
Obina looked at her. “My name is Obin Wuku, but that part is true. Everything else I had to hide.”
Adama blinked. “Obin Wuku? Wait, that name—”
“You may have seen it on the news or on company boards in Lagos.”
Her mouth dropped open. “No… You own Wuku Group of Companies?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
Her chest rose and fell quickly. “Why did you act like a beggar?”
“I wanted to know the truth about you, about your uncle, about everyone around you.”
He explained: Years ago, his father was a businessman. Uncle Ozu Amina worked with him, but greed led him to forge signatures and steal money. Obina’s father lost everything, fell ill, and died. Obina rebuilt the company in secret, but returned to the village disguised as a beggar to see how people treated those with nothing.
“You were the only one who treated me like a human being,” he said. “You didn’t look away. You didn’t insult me. You greeted me with respect. When your uncle offered to sell you to me, I agreed—to rescue you.”
“So everything was a test,” Adama whispered.
Obina nodded. “Yes.”
She looked out the window, trees passing by. “You were watching me the whole time, testing me.”
“I was hoping for a reason to believe in someone again, and you gave me that.”
Adama turned to him, voice low. “You know what hurts the most? You were the only person who saw me as a person. Even when I thought you were poor, you looked at me like I mattered.”
He swallowed hard.
“And now I find out you’re rich, powerful, important, but you never told me.”
“I wanted you to see the real me before you saw the money.”
“And now what?”
“We go to our new home, where you’ll be safe and respected.”
She looked down at her hands, shaking a little. “Will I ever go back to the village?”
“If you want to.”
“I do. They need to see what God did for me.”
An hour later, the SUV turned into a wide private road. The gates ahead were tall and gold-colored. Behind them was a mansion, three stories tall. Fountains danced in the driveway, servants bowed. Adama stepped out, her old wedding lace still on her shoulder, but now everyone greeted her as “madam.”
Inside, she bathed and changed into fresh clothes, then stood on the balcony looking at the garden below. Obina came beside her.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Now you live. You breathe. You heal.”
“And them—my uncle and his family?”
“What do you want to happen?”
“I want them to know I’m not the failure they thought I was. But I don’t want revenge.”
He smiled gently. “Then you’re already better than them.”
She looked down at the ring on her finger, simple but heavy now. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Thank you for being you.”
She looked at the sky, stars beginning to show. “Tomorrow, can we go back to the village?”
He raised a brow. “So soon?”
“I want to see their faces. I want them to see the beggar and the bride.”
The next morning, dressed in dignity, Adama returned to her village. The SUV rolled in, children pointed, elders whispered. She stepped out, peaceful and strong. Obina handed Uncle Ozu Amina a small box. “This is for the debt your family owes me. It’s not money. It’s the truth.”
Adama faced her uncle. “You called me cursed. You said I would marry a madman. You told the world I was nothing. And yet, God remembered me. I didn’t come to insult you. I came to show you that even when people try to bury a seed, it can still grow.”
She gave Aunt Neca an envelope. “Buy something nice for you and your daughters.” She turned to the crowd. “I’m not better than anyone here. I’m just proof that your story doesn’t end where others leave you.”
She turned back to the SUV. “Thank you for kicking me out. If you didn’t, I would never have walked into my real life.”
As the car drove away, Adama breathed slowly. “Now I’m ready,” she said. “Ready for whatever comes next.”
In the years that followed, Adama built women’s centers, sponsored orphans, and spoke in universities. When asked what changed her life, she always said the same thing: Kindness.
That was the real story.
THE END
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